Staring at an ink spot on cardboard in my hand, an image which is not random. Beauty of an ink stain without randomness. It is a test, quite ominous, a ready-made analysed by experts. I am like a victim, eyes are on me. A test that relies a human mind to work as a factory and a worker doing the same wanted things over and over again and is paid to do so as a good girl. Patterns given making a product that pleases or does not. What are the results? I must be mad and insecure with plenty of imagination though. Can a person have too much imagination? To stare is a symptom of madness. It is irregular, a sign. This test is a trap. It begins to make one feel sick before saying anything. The idea of judging and examining someone’s mind with this is strange. To be able to tell what this ink spot is a picture of, what comes to my mind instantly when I look at it and tell my vision to the qualified one who analyses my story and the result, who has a say over me, my life. Resulting an obscure and unreliable test that tells of nothing but where imagination can take us, what imagination can result can be madness. I must be mad to have agreed to do this. How will I do in this test?